Mad TOM a Bedlams desires of peace: or his Benedicities for distracted
Englands restauration to her wits again.
By a constant, though unjust, sufferer (now in prison) for his Majesties just Regality,
and his Countreys Liberty. SFWB.
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POor Tom hath been imprison'd,
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With strange oppressions vexed;
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He dares boldly say, they try'd each way,
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Wherewith Job was perplexed.
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Yet still he cries for the King for the good King,
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Tom loves brave confessors,
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But he curses those dare their King depose
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Committees and oppressors.
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Tom prayes for good King Charles,
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The best of Queenes, Queene Mary;
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Prayes the Prince may advance in safety from France,
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Victorious as old Harry,
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Those have been false to the King to the good King,
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All those durst dissemble,
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Tom smiles but to think how the Rogues will stink,
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And like stout Atkins tremble.
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Next he prayes for him in Holland,
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Who his keeper so deceived,
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Got the Speakers Passe for a pretty Lasse,
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And so he was received.
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'Twill be great joy to the King to the good King,
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To hear of his safety,
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But he taught them a trick, at hide and seek,
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They think hee's plaguy crafty.
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Blesse the hopefull Duke of Gloster,
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And the Princesse royall Mary,
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May shee fruitfull prove, to increase his love,
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A Charles first, then a Harry:
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Blesse those have stood for the King for the good King,
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And the Off-spring Royall:
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Tom prayes heaven blesse sweet Princesse Besse,
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Loves none she thinks disloyall.
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Blesse those few Lords are honest,
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From the Armies Adjutators,
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Saints sent from heaven, to make all even,
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Both Church and State translators:
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Those stood not firm to the King to the good King,
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But have him forsaken,
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Let the Crownets they weare, and supporters should beare,
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Their Arms from them be taken.
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Blesse the reverent suffering Bishops,
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Each Parson, Vicar, Curate,
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From the Presbyter plots and subtile Scots,
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Whose hearts are so obdurate.
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Blesse those stood fast to the King to the good King,
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Masters, Fellows, Proctors;
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Pox take the fool went with his Councell of Trent,
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To visit Oxford Doctors.
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Blesse the loyall hearted Gentry
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In Country, Towns, and Cities
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From the bane of us all (base Goldsmiths Hall)
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And from their close Committees.
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Those who were false to the King to the good King
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Irish, Scot, or English;
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Some marks may they beare or colours weare
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May them from us distinguish.
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Blesse the City from their Lord Major
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From close Committee treasons
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From those are unjust to the Cities trust
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From traytors watch their seasons.
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Now make amends to your King to your good King
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For you have undon him;
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Your coyne to the Scots, your strength and their plots
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Have brought these ills upon him.
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By poore Tom be advised
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As you at White-hall tryed
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So as stoutly call for a common hall,
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It cannot be denyed.
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Call on the States for your King for your good King.
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Wish them to deliver
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Unto justice those who the peace oppose,
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You strike it dead forever.
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Blesse us all 'tis a mad World,
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Tom's heart is struck with pitty
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To think how of late this thing call'd a State
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Hath wrought upon this City.
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'Tis time you call for the King for the good King,
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Else you will be undone
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If the Army should bring to ruin your King,
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What will become of London?
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Blesse the valiant honest souldiers
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From the hands of base Commanders,
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From those spirits employ'd, so many destroy'd,
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For want of pay in Flanders.
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Those have been false to the King, to the good King
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May they ship at Dover,
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Thence to Rupert in France who will lead them a dance
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They hardly shall recover.
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Blesse the Printer from the Searcher
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And from the Houses takers.
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Blesse Tom from the flash; from Bridewel's lash,
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Blesse all poore Ballad-makers.
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Those who have writ for the King, for the good King
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Be it rime or reason,
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If they please but to look through Jenkins his book
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The'ile hardly finde it treason.
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